


In Memoriam

by Tedronai



Category: The Malazan Book of the Fallen - Steven Erikson
Genre: (and others but mainly that one), Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, and the stoic Azathanai is more emotionally mature than the entire city of Kharkanas, in which the Tiste are all hot disasters, the one in TTH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: Even when he's gone, it's always about Anomander.





	1. His Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

> This fic hardly warrants multiple chapters, but I felt like each of the scenes needed to stand apart somehow, so you get the world's shortest multichapter. You're welcome.

Nimander was shorter than Anomander Rake. The difference was small, such that a casual observer might not have noticed it at all, but standing next to Nimander, looking over the reclaimed city of Kharkanas, Silchas Ruin couldn’t help but be aware. 

The city below was dotted with lights, a reminder that its population consisted at least as much of humans as Tiste Andii; the darkness of Kharkanas was such that people could still see, but it was a human thing to feel the need for light nonetheless. The non-Tiste population was a mixed bunch of Letherii, Shake, and Silchas suspected there were the odd Malazan in the city as well, though he couldn’t imagine why. The Tiste themselves were few in number, and many of them were of mixed blood to begin with. 

Including Nimander and his siblings or cousins or whatever his relation to the other youths was. Children of Anomander Rake, supposedly, though only Nimander had the dubious fortune of sharing his father’s distinctive looks.  _ Children of Anomander Rake. _ Now that was a thought that had taken some getting used to, and Silchas couldn’t say he’d still quite managed that.  _ Did my brother go around fathering bastards, and not only that, but collecting his offspring from their mothers after the fact? _

“My understanding is that it wasn’t intentional,” Nimander said, and Silchas realised that he’d uttered that last thought out loud. “Though I could be wrong. He was not in the habit of explaining himself. Certainly not to us.”

That, at least, sounded perfectly like Anomander. Silchas snorted softly. “Fuck around enough and babies will happen eventually,” he said. “My brother should have known that. So, if not intentional, then it was indifference.”

Nimander inclined his head slightly as if conceding a point. “That’s a less than flattering way of putting it, but you’re probably right.”

Silchas glanced at the young man next to him. “I did not mean to imply he didn’t care,” he began, but trailed off awkwardly as he realised that that was precisely what he’d implied and more than that, stated outright. “Forgive me. He was your father.”

“No, you’re right,” Nimander said, shaking his head. For a moment he seemed to be struggling with words, frowning down at the city below. Then he took a deep breath before speaking again, “He cared, yes, but he cared on a different level. Anomander Rake cared about the survival of our people; he cared about our future, something most of us had given up on centuries ago. He gave his life so that we could have that future.  _ This _ future.” He looked at Silchas again, and smiled ruefully. “But did he care about his children as a parent would? No, I do not believe he did. It was Andarist who raised us; Andarist who loved us like a father. I am not even certain whether Anomander gave me my name, or whether that was Andarist, too.”

There was no bitterness in the young lord’s voice, no resentment towards an absent father. No, instead he sounded more like Anomander than ever, and Silchas had to look away. “It was our father’s name,” he said, gazing over the city without truly seeing it; “Nimander, of House Purake. He died long before Kharkanas was lost, long before we embraced the draconean blood. Long before everything fell apart.”

“So Andarist told me,” Nimander said. There was a trace of wry humour in his voice as he added, “That is quite a legacy for me to live up to.”

Silchas looked back at him and was struck by the sight of not an awkward or insecure young man struggling under the weight of his people’s expectations, but a strong and confident leader who had grown into his power and was comfortable with it.  _ Live up to? Ah, Nimander, you do that already… _

“Some day,” Nimander went on, “I would like to hear more about your youth; you, my father, Andarist, the three of you. There must be so many stories… But that can wait.” He sighed and added, “Alas, there are things that cannot.” His hand settled briefly on Silchas’ shoulder, and then he swept past him and vanished down the stairs.

 


	2. Her Brother's Keeper

Korlat bore her grief gracefully. She had always done everything gracefully, as far as Silchas could tell, despite—or possibly because of— the unorthodox circumstances of her birth and neglected childhood. She stood in attendance, quiet and dignified, as Nimander met with Yan Tovis, the Queen of the Shake, to discuss the future of the realm. She had lost, besides her lord, a lover and a brother, and though her mother had returned from the dead, the reunion had brought her no joy; Sandalath Drukorlat had ever cared only for Orfantal, and he had died.

There was not a Tiste Andii alive who had not known the grief of loss, but Korlat had known  _ love _ , in all its devastating beauty, and it had been taken from her. Yet somehow the loss had not destroyed her; it was as though in loving that mortal man, she had found something that endured even while he was gone, and she was stronger for having loved and lost.

After the meeting, she stayed behind when Yan Tovis left, and approached Nimander. “My lord,” she began, then hesitated.

Nimander smiled at her. “Korlat. I trust you are well?”

“I… Yes. Thank you.” She took a deep breath, visibly bracing herself as if to bring up an unpleasant matter—but Nimander broached the subject first. 

Still smiling, a gentle expression that belied his years, the young lord spoke softly, “Your mother is as well as can be expected. Only time will tell whether she will fully recover, but I have hope. And so does Withal.”

Korlat bowed her head and exhaled slowly. “Thank you, my lord.”

When Nimander was gone, Korlat looked over to Silchas, who had listened to the exchange in silence. “He has…  _ grown _ ,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “I never thought anyone could take Anomander Rake’s place, not even his son, but Nimander has done remarkably well. He is more like his father every time I see him.”

“Not too much so, I should hope,” Silchas murmured.

Korlat frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You followed my brother through all those years, Korlat,” Silchas said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Tell me, did you never notice him losing perspective?”

“Perspective?” There was an oddly discordant note of incredulity to Korlat’s voice. “Silchas, your brother  _ saved us all _ . He carried the hopes and dreams and the future of an entire people for countless lifetimes, he sacrificed himself so that we may  _ have _ a future. He brought us home…”

Smiling faintly, Silchas raised his hand in a placative gesture, and Korlat fell silent, though her eyes still blazed with righteous indignation. “How well he was loved,” Silchas said softly. “No, Korlat, you’re right; he did what he had to, and he did it against impossible odds, and he did it alone, though he had you and Orfantal and Spinnock Durav. And that was his problem—no, hear me out. No matter how much he loved his people, and I do not doubt that he did, he had to remain… remote, untouchable, to be able to do what he did. But that kind of leadership has its time and place, and it is not here. And so,” he spread his hands and tilted his head slightly, “I hope that Nimander does not become too much like him.”

Korlat stared at him for a long while in silence, but eventually she gave a curt nod, neither accepting his words nor denying them. As she turned to leave, however, Silchas spoke once more.

“From what I have heard,” he said, “my brother left you to rot in a place called Coral. It was Nimander who brought you home.”

To that, Korlat said nothing.

 


	3. The Broken and the Damned

Prazek Gowl spent most of his evenings in the one tavern in Kharkanas that was open for business. Owned and ran by a pair of Letherii who had come in with the Shake and decided to stay after the battles, the establishment served drinks and food, if you weren’t too picky about your definition of ‘food’, and it never seemed to close, and that was good enough for its patrons.

When Silchas entered the tavern, he found not only Prazek but also Spinnock Durav sitting at a table in a far corner; Prazek was slumped over his arms on the table, an empty tankard precariously close to one elbow on the edge of the table, while Spinnock sat with his long legs stretched out before him and arms crossed over his broad chest. Silchas picked up a bottle of wine at the counter and walked over.

Prazek looked up as he pulled up a chair to join the two men at their table. “Welcome, milord, to our merry company!” he said, slurring the words and gesturing sloppily. His elbow knocked the empty tankard off the table; he watched, the look on his face almost comical in its confusion, as it hit the flood and rolled under the table, leaving behind glistening droplets of ale. 

Spinnock merely made a disgusted face and reached for the bottle Silchas had placed on the table. Unlike his companion, the hulking warrior appeared still mostly sober. That, or maybe he just faked it better. He took a swig straight from the bottle, grimaced, and set it back on the table, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Friend Prazek is right,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re hardly fit company.”

Silchas shrugged. “That makes three of us.” He eyed the bottle for a second before picking it up and taking a swig; the wine was lukewarm and tasted of overripe berries and a lifetime of regrets, but it was alcoholic and that was what mattered. He wondered if being buried alive for thousands of years had done anything to his tolerance. He supposed this was as good a time as any to find out.

He contemplated his companions; Prazek had gone back to his previous pose, slumped over the table, and Spinnock was staring into nothing with almost frightening intensity. Rumour had it that Spinnock had found someone, back in Coral, a human woman he had developed feelings for, but she had turned him down. Silchas found it difficult to imagine anyone rejecting Spinnock Durav, but he supposed stranger things had happened. 

As for Prazek, he had lost his partner in the battle at the Shore. Dathenar Fandoris had died fighting there, and it might have been a kinder fate for Prazek to share her fate—and Silchas was fairly certain Dathenar had used to be a ‘he’ back when he’d known her, but he wasn’t going to question it—but Prazek had survived. For the moment. Looking at him, day after day, it seemed but a matter of time until he would follow his lover. Prazek and Dathenar had been legendary even before the exile, not only as warriors but as inseparable friends, and imagining one without the other was well nigh impossible.

“Lord Nimander finally allowed you a break from the matters of state, then?” Spinnock Durav’s voice brought him back to the present.

Before Silchas could reply, Prazek stirred again. “Kicked him out of the conference chamber, more like,” the drunken warrior mumbled without raising his head. “No offence, milord, but you were never very good at politics.”

Spinnock shot him an exasperated look, which Prazek obviously missed. “You were better company while you were silently wallowing in your misery.”

“Get me something stronger than the horse piss they call ale here and I shall be silent for the rest of the night,” came the solemn and surprisingly well-articulated reply.

Spinnock shook his head. “You wish to drink yourself to death, you can do it yourself. I will not assist you in that.”

Silchas leaned back in his chair as he listened to the exchange. He had interrupted something, here; some strange equilibrium had been unbalanced when he had walked in and joined this—how had Prazek put it?—merry company. He regretted it now, but leaving wouldn’t make the damage undone. So he pretended not to notice. “I’m afraid Prazek is right,” he said with a faint, mildly self-deprecating smile. “Nimander does not need my advice. He keeps me around out of courtesy, I believe, or maybe he doesn’t entirely trust his own ability to lead, yet. But he doesn’t need me any more than his father did.”

That earned him a muted snort from Prazek, which was more or less what he’d expected, but Spinnock Durav smiled sadly. “If you believe your brother didn’t need you,” he began, then cut off and shook his head again. “You really can be awfully dense sometimes, Ruin, you know that?”

Too surprised by the response to even be offended, Silchas frowned. “What do you mean?” he said slowly. “Anomander did the impossible, and he did it—”

“Alone, yes,” Spinnock interrupted him. “I am aware. But does it ever occur to you to ask, at what cost? What did it cost him to keep all his plans and hopes and secrets so close to his chest?” Again, that damnable sad smile. “I know I never thought to question it until it was too late.”

Silchas found that he had little to say to that, and the silence that fell was for a long while broken only by Prazek’s snoring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I can't be the only one who noticed that Dathenar is referred to as a woman in TCG, and while I'm almost certain that's an editing thing, much like Orfantal in early editions of GotM, it's my city now and you're going to have to pry trans!Dathenar from my cold, dead hands.


	4. A Very Old Friend

It was near dawn when the visitor arrived in Kharkanas.

Spinnock Durav had left the tavern some hours ago, leaving Silchas sitting alone with the snoring Prazek. Even the bartender had vanished, evidently trusting that nobody would bother stealing while she caught a few hours of sleep. Silchas had finished the bottle of wine—though calling it that was generous at best—and had sat lost in thought since then.

He felt the visitor’s presence as soon as he stepped into Kurald Galain. Silchas sprung to his feet and almost before he knew it, he was striding through the city, towards the presence that drew him like a lodestone.

 

Caladan Brood waited for him at the gates.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Silchas spoke into the silence between them.

“I never thought I’d return to this place,” Brood replied. His presence had always had a weight to it that had little to do with his physical bulk, but it seemed to have grown even more implacable since the last time Silchas had seen him.

“Do you find it much changed?” Silchas asked, not without humour.

The look in Brood’s eyes spoke volumes, but he replied anyway. “There were many things about Kharkanas that deserved to be lost forever,” he said, “and I hope you will build something better in its stead. But no matter how well you succeed, to me it will always feel empty…”

“Without Anomander,” Silchas concluded. He nodded and inhaled sharply. “ _Caladan_ —”

But Brood cut him off. “Walk with me.”

 

They left the city and wandered down to the banks of Dorssan Ryl where the river flowed gently out of the city. The black waters reflected nothing, or maybe they reflected the black sky overhead. Had the river been so dark before Darkness had come to Kurald Galain? Silchas couldn’t remember. 

He looked at his companion, who likewise stood contemplating the river. “You were with him,” Silchas said, a hint of question to his voice, “at the end?”

Brood nodded. “As close as he would let me.”

Silchas snorted softly. “Of course.” 

Brood looked at him then, and his expression was at once exasperated and understanding. “He was often stubborn and secretive,” Brood agreed, “and maybe he should have shared more of his burden with those closest to him. Those are all valid criticisms. But there was never—nor, I believe, will there ever be—another like him. Anomander Rake was one of a kind, and I am proud to have called him a friend.”

Struggling to draw breath for the pain suddenly clenching his chest, Silchas looked away, back to the river. “The best part of him lives on in Nimander,” he said quietly.

Brood was silent for a while. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “But Nimander is not Anomander, and treating him as a substitute for his father is not fair towards either.”

“That’s not what I said,” Silchas tried to protest, but Brood went on.

“I heard what you said. And I also heard what you didn’t say.” Something in Brood’s voice made Silchas turn and look at him again. “You have convinced yourself that Nimander is better fit to lead the Tiste Andii right now, and you may even be right about that, but that does not mean you shouldn’t miss Anomander, or that you shouldn’t grieve.” Silchas was shocked to see tears flowing freely down Brood’s broad face. “Grieve, Silchas Ruin! He deserves that much.”

The edge of raw pain in Brood’s voice hit Silchas like a physical blow, and he took an involuntary step backwards. Then, something like a dam breaking, and he crumbled under the flood anguish bottled up for too long. He fell to his knees on the rocky ground, but the pain of the impact barely registered. “I wasn’t there,” he whispered. “I couldn’t be there for him, or Andarist, when they needed me, and now they’re dead and I’m the only one left.” A ragged sob shook his entire body and he covered his face with his hands. “Why am I the one left?”

Brood said nothing, and that was just as well because there was no real answer to that. For a moment time seemed to stand still, the only sound in the sunless Kurald Galain dawn that of Silchas’ weeping. Then, a thump as Brood set his hammer on the ground before sitting down next to the Tiste Andii. A large hand settled on Silchas’ shoulder.

The two sat there for a long time, each wrapped in their own grief, yet somehow less alone with it than they had been.

 


End file.
